The Sorrows of the World
by Edhunne
Summary: This is essentially my first fic. It's situated in the east of Middle-Earth a bit befor the war of the Ring, more will come as time goes by. R&R!


Disclaimer: I do not own anything made by Tolkien.  
  
Notes: Linguistic notes and other stuff will follow if (and when) I feel like it.  
  
Prologue:  
  
The sun was shining golden as the wind gently tickled the soft grass of the Awerí Lhacá, the slopes that marked the barrier between the remnants of the still vast and daunting Red Mountains and the orderly garden of Whitwood, which stretched all the way to the Hanalóri in the far south. On the highest of those hills, which was a hill positioned precariously in the middle of the hilly open spot over a small cave through which a small stream of water should once have flowed, a small boy stood. He stood there happily, it could be seen from miles away, and breathed the fresh morning air as if it was the sweetest of perfumes. The boy stretched his arms to the pleasantly warm summer sun, hoping to catch as many of its gentle rays as his small body allowed.  
  
"Rowen, it would be best if you come sit with us. Ayteno and Hete might return any minute now!" a voice from the foot of the hill shouted to the boy, though its origin could not be spotted by any but the most skilled observer. For the caller was an Elf, and as is the custom with an Elf travelling through dubious lands, he was virtually undetectable in his surroundings.  
  
"In a minute dad!" the boy shouted back undisturbed by the voice shouting at him from below "The view here is the best I've seen ever! Can't we stay here a while?"  
  
"I'm afraid not, little one, for if we linger for too long here we might be detected by things you would not like to lay eyes on!" his father replied  
  
The boy just stood there a little longer, paying no heed to his fathers warnings, as the view and smell of this luscious yet cool summer morning was too enchanting for anyone to miss.  
  
On the base of the hill, the Elf that had just spoken sighed "Thuro my friend, I do not know what will become of that boy. Not only has he stirred everything evil in a 2000 foot radius, he just doesn't seem to care." At that the other two Elves seemed to burst into a clear sound of laughter.  
  
"And you, lord Wentir, need to loosen up. The world can not be saved through sternness alone, you forgot how to have a good laugh, as any man should." The Elf said to be Thuro laughingly stated, as the other Elf started to regain her calmness. She stretched her neck and put her ear in the direction of the Yellow Mountains.  
  
"Yes, things stir as we rest. The Orcs on our trail have been gaining on us these last few days. Let us hope they will not overtake us before we reach Burlithond." She said thoughtfully.  
  
Thuro waved his hand and replied carelessly "Perhaps then we could seek refuge in the neighbouring Mannish city. We might even rally them to our cause. And if these fell beasts DO overtake us" he then tapped proudly on his sheathed sword "we can still deliver quite some resistance I daresay." At that, the woman laughed again "And you would be the one to deliver that, am I not correct Thuro?"  
  
"Enough, Lhálië and Thuro. These ramblings make more noise than an army of Trolls in combat with a band of Ents." Wentir, the leading Elf, cut them off.  
  
The two other Elves shot him a surprised, somewhat irritated look. The Elf adressed as Lhálië  
  
Quickly stood up as she spoke to Wentir in solemn tone. "As you wish, my lord. For that is what you still are, after all that years. But the friend I once had has long since needlessly perished. It would be good to see him again."  
  
Wentir directed his sorrowful blue-eyed gaze towards her and replied coolly: "That friend lived a life of folly and his death was necessary for the cause."  
  
At that, Lhálië seemed to loose the twinkle in her green eyes which always graced her, as it was for a moment replaced with anger. She turned around angrily and paced away with a light stride, climbing the hill where Rowen was standing.  
  
Thuro, who had been silent about the matter, raised his fair head as he began to speak. "She is right Wentir. You have been getting ever more grave, you should loossen up."  
  
"If I have need for your advice Thuro, I will tell you." Was all Wentir said as his eyes followed Lhálië suspiciously.  
  
"Hey little one, what are you doing?"  
  
Rowen turned at once with a startled look on his young face. He looked like Wentir. He had the same blond hair and the same piercing blue eyes, and his body was just as fine and seemingly fragile as his father's, even though a hidden strength and grace was beneath those deceiving features. But he had not yet lost optimism, like his father had.  
  
Rowen's eyes brightened as he saw Lhálië.  
  
"Lhálië! Have you come to enjoy this wonderful day too?"  
  
The female Elf smiled tenderly at the boy.  
  
"I wish I could, Rowen, but there are Orcs behind us, and Ayteno and Hene are late." But as she lay an arm around his shoulder and kneeled beside him, she felt sorry for not telling Rowen of her real grief. But all the boy did was shrug and point towards the forest.  
  
"See that Lhálië? That forest! We haven't been there yet, it would be nice to go there, don't you think?" And he looked at Lhálië with a smile on his face as he virtually jumped up and down with the feeling of adventure in his bones. But still Lhálië had to return Rowen optimism with a dark stare "Your father decides where we go, and we're not going there I'm afraid. And who am I to argue with him?"  
  
Rowen shot her an odd glance "You are Lhálië isn't it? Isn't that enough?"  
  
Lhálië retreated her arm from his shoulder and rose, tears welling up in her eyes. Softly she whispered into the air in her despair, while Rowen beside her was jumping up and down as he waved to the returning scout party.  
  
"It is not enough, not anymore"  
  
"Dad! Dad! It's Ayteno and Hene! They've come back!" Said Rowen waving at the two scouts, and they waved back.  
  
Wentir sighed with relief.  
  
"I'm glad the scouts have come back, Thuro. This hilly landscape would be the perfect place for an ambush, gather all the equipment, we're leaving."  
  
"As you wish, Wentir" Thuro replied as he put out the fire and started packing the left food.  
  
Wentir also moved to the foodstuff which remained after their humble feast, when his nose caught a smell, a familiar smell, a dreadful smell. He dropped what he was holding and turned to Thuro with surprise, fear and much sorrow in his eyes.  
  
"Grab your sword, warn Ayteno and Hene" Wentir said staring towards ta point unseen to Thuro.  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"The Ambush, it's happening again. The same type of terrain, same situation. Same smell."  
  
"But that... that's impossible, we would have known!" Thuro shot back.  
  
"Go, you fool!"  
  
The last words were uttered in a thundering voice, and Thuro immediately ran away, fear shining through his mask of pure concentration, the mask of battle.  
  
"What's wrong with Thuro, Lhálië? Why is he running?" Rowen inquired suspiciously. No answer came. He turned around slowly, voice startingng to tremble.  
  
"Lhálië?"  
  
And he shouted as he saw Lhálië wrestle with an arrow which had pierced her throat, her breath of life never reaching her bloodfilled lungs. She gurgled now, evidently trying to speak as she fell to her knees and the blood from her throat touched the soil. Another arrow came, seemingly out of nowhere. It hit her right in the eye, and she fell to the earth as if it were her salvation. Rowen shouted louder now, and started to run towards his father, who was running up hill now. But suddenly, out of the cave below the hill came streaming blackskinned Orcs, and they fired their poisoned arrows as they went. Rowen and Wentir now were seperated by a sea of evil fell Orcs, but Wentir drew his sword and cleft his way through the heaps of black skin and notched scimitars, waved frantically above hideous heads.  
  
But it was too late, for the Orcs took Rowen, who was still screaming and carried him away.  
  
"NO!" Wentir screamed as his son was taken away. The Orcs stopped in their wake and their terrible and harsh cries were for a moment ceased, as the sound of the enraged furious firstborn Elf, Wentir, brother to Ingwë, made more noise than the hideous group could ever hope to muster, even with Trolls.  
  
"UNHAND HIM!" and the world greyed for Wentir as he saw his son being taken away. His mind cleared itself of all emotions, and the Orcs dared not assail him, for in his furious eyes and his hideously terrible face they could see their impending death, and they fled before him, to no avail. Wentir was a grinder who with his sword cut down limb after limb, Orc after Orc, soiling the green hills with their acid black blood, silencing their cries of fear, making them flee in a disorderous line, trampling their own kin in the process. Wentir's mind was fixed on slaughter and death as he slew Orc after Orc, and even the occasional Troll fell. But his mind did not allow access for the fall of his mighty comrades, Ayteno, who wrestled an Orc on his back and had two arrows sticking out of his bloodstained breast, and Hene whose throat was being slit by another Orc and blood poured from the mortal wound onto her horse which was cut down from beneath her. Wentir also didn't see Thuro like a razor cutting through lines of Orcs, trying to reach his comrades, finding them slain on their mutilated horsed. For Wentir there was only death, death to those that harmed his son.  
  
Wentir would not fail his promise. He had promised her... He would protect her son, protect him with his life. And he promised he would not fail again, as he had failed her so many times.  
  
He would not fail.  
  
He could not fail.  
  
But the tide of Orcs was once again turned as a shriek which would have bosomed fear into any man, were it not that Wentir was no man. But the Orcs turned again in greater fear towards Wentir. They feared this new monster more than Wentir obviously. And a few hesitant arrows were fired, which dropped harmlessly behind Wentir onto the ground which was littered with Orc corpses. But the arrows grew more accurate and the orcs more bold as the thing that had screached, the odd looking Black Rider approached them. And arrows pierced his arms, his legs. But Wentir stumbled on.  
  
He would not fail her, he would not fail her.  
  
The Orcs marched forward, being cut down by Wentir's still vicious sword which cut its way forward ever more slowly. He did not see Thuro running towards him.  
  
He had promised her, he could not fail.  
  
He did not see the Orcs making way for the Black Rider, he pressed forward. Nor did he see Thuro being knocked out by a Troll's vast club, Wentir had to save her son.  
  
He had failed her so many times not again.  
  
But his world turned black as the Rider raised his sword. He fell to his knees, dropped his own sword, and hid his face in the grass, and he cried.  
  
He had failed her, failed her again.  
  
But as his spirit faded , he felt her yearning, yearning from the blackness, the darkness of death. And in his heart he smiled. He would be with her, with Rowen, he would be there with them in the halls of Mandos.  
  
He would not fail her, he was coming. 


End file.
